Like a log cabin with the door missing
a beautiful painting of a lady with the eyes botched out.
lazily wearing sunglasses and thick oriental scarves and stumbling around snow covered bricks and steps for tea.
If we spoke last night, I’m not the wiser.

Multiple television screens were left on, emitting evil streams of light into the darkness everywhere.
I misstepped and said my favorite instrument is a tuba, and a tuba bellowed and burped in my second sets of dreams.
Now everyone goes and I just sit here alone, without the right books
without the right writing utensils, without the right self, even.

You all look so handsome walking down the street together.
Will we ever be able to reminiscence Wednesday morning, Sunday morning, Saturday morning, Thursday morning (you know the rest) and feel that all the decisions we made were wise?
Idleness does not exist.
Impulsivity does, though, and she is a *****.  

she’ll come at night, draped in ****, soft, alluring material
she’ll tell you it’s okay for now
do what makes you happy for a little while
for a while
the morning doesn’t happen
the morning might be bright
you might have an internal dialogue and it might end it “why am I here?”
but, hey, it might not.  

Like a painting of beautiful angel face woman,
naked, and stretched out on a velvet canopy bed
but the eyes are botched out.

Untitled
my childhood dog
died yesterday afternoon.
this morning i woke up with a head full of blood
that was falling out of my nose.
i called my brother to talk
about the summer
and the truth we turn from
that is lightly tugging
at the lining of our fathers heart.

i am moving at a pace that
resembles the shifting of
a two glacial bodies —
the formation of a stalactite
within the caverns of our
dust speck, swollen bellied earth space,
but i am still moving.

it will not always be this way.
it will not always be this way.

I turned water into coffee this morning
and sat by the four corner light box
while reading a book
that taught me not to judge it by its cover.
The twisted crooks
that the story entails
the end trails of coke heads
that still drop slowly down the walls of
East Harlem.
I turned water into coffee this morning
and sat by the four corner light box
and all of its massive holiness
creating a halo around my entire body
without fearing a bullet would come rushing in
and **** me dead
I sat and read of another universe where
life and love still exist
but in a way I could not bring myself to condone
I turned water into coffee this morning
and sat by the four corner light box
with a dark shadow created by the backlit room
safe and in place
just wishing I was one of the twisted crooks
the story entailed
with my end trails in a little more danger
than when
I turned water into coffee this morning
and sat with the purity of my whiteness,
by the four corner light box
while reading another universe
and doing nothing about it.

I can’t keep crying
over the people I used
to be, and wishing

I could be dying
because of that feeling of
what was you and me.

tomorrow morning
i will wake up on the floor.
perpetually unfazed, among the empty beer cans
and the ash smudges between the carpet fibers,
thinking about the way it started in
the very beginning.
today, on repeat for every day this month.

i can't hear out of my right earl,
and my body is punishing me
for not eating and drinking myself dizzy.
dragging myself through the morning
all the way to the middle of the middle of the night
and then again.

Forget, Forgotten.
classless scummy ohio whatever,

i once loved a firework, once.
she went off
midday
a puff, black thick smoke,
in what was otherwise
a pristine sky with an eye for some sun.
since then
i've been living in troubledays,
waiting for the cold to clear
singing to myself
when i get the chance
thinking about that black smoke
on a canvas of clarity
when i've got none of it.
i'm taking my chances with me
wherever they follow,
and i am coming back
just not today, and probably not tomorrow